Legacy of Darkness II
by Sinitar
Summary: A continuation of the events from Legacy of Darkness. Nasuada and the Varden continue their bold campaign. Eragon has to choose between two truths. Murtagh, now an exile, must choose a path. Arya struggles to accept her nature as a Dragon Rider while the Varden constantly exploit her abilities. New alliances are forged, and old ones are broken.
1. Supplies and Shelter part 1

**Author's note: This book picks up the events from my previous work called Legacy of Darkness. If you are not familiar with it, you may check it out, although the story is solid enough to act as a stand alone novel. I will also split some chapters into two parts, like I did with this one. The reason is simple: I want to make it easy on the reader and also update faster. Enjoy, and please tell me what you think about it :)**

The door whined when Nasuada pushed it open, a jarring creak that brought a frown upon her face every time she visited the council chamber . "We'll discuss supplies and sheltering," she said. The other four abandoned their maps, papers and quills, but none broke the silence. Nasuada took her seat at the round table and glanced at each of them. Jormundur, ever frowning, as if the words upon his tongue had a constant bitter taste. Falberd, who only looked at her with the corner of one eye while his hands caressed the bitch lying under his seat. Orik, the dwarf king—or the dwarf who used to be king. She knew not who he was anymore, or where his allegiance stood: to her, or to his people. Sabrae, the last of them—and the most despicable—lounged in her chair, trapped in a state between slumber and alertness, her emerald eyes half closed.

None greeted her, and none acknowledged her topic more than they acknowledged her. Lassitude and cowardice. That's what defined them. But the people asked for a council, and Nasuada had to respect their wish. So she repeated in a more commanding voice, "Supplies and sheltering. Jormundur."

His cerulean eyes regarded her warily. "Could use more of both, my lady. Cold winds are rising, and less bread is baked with each passing day. Most of the winter shipments arrived not half a moon cycle ago, and a quarter is already gone. More and more homeless hug the walls of a house in search of a warm spot or a stretch of roof." He lowered his gaze and sighed. "Feinster can't house both army, commoners and peasants."

"That's three categories of people," Sabrae cut in. She had a knack to correct bad language, bad manners, and annoy everyone in the process. "There's only room for two in your sentence. Same goes for Feinster."

"We discuss **supplies and sheltering**," Nasuada emphasized with an increased tone. "Not who to send away to the villages to die of the issue at hand. And if the cold, malnourishment and lack of shelter doesn't get them, the Empire bandits will."

Falberd coughed. "And what is there to discuss, pray tell? Numbers on a piece of paper? We'll go through them until the sun sets, and by the time it does, urchins will still prey on the old with hunger to make them bold."

"Laryth the Rebel," Sabrae said. "He said that one, didn't he? When he conquered some nameless city in Surda. There's a piece of wisdom for you, Nasuada. Hungry men are dangerous."

"Quotes, books, japes." Nasuada twined her fingers and rested her chin on the bridge of her hands. "Do you have something solid for me, apart from the words of a dead man?"

"The dead left us this inheritance. Ignore it if you will, but it made kings fall or kneel," Falberd said. The bitch underneath the table barked twice in approval.

Jormundur got up. With his muscular built and height, he towered above them all like a tired sentry. "My lady, Sabrae and Falberd, while blunt and inconsiderate towards our people, do have a point. The villages we left behind are the homes of many. Giving them leave to go back to their wives and fields is a blessing."

"A curse in disguise, you mean. Marauders will be upon them before our stretched forces get to act."

An eerie silence spread across the room. Not even the bitch dared disturb it with one of her usual whines. Hard times for the people meant hard times for the commanders. Nasuada knew it. She had witnessed firsthand just how ephemeral power is when the people learn that a leader is but one person. How's a pebble supposed to stop a crashing wave?

Motes of dust floated lazily in the beams of light that streamed from two side windows. The day was warm, unusually so for late autumn. The heat brought out a musty stench from the layers of paper, leather and ink stained parchments.

"What about mine people?" The hard, guttural words belonged to Orik. "The Varden welcomed us alright when they had need of our steel." Two thick fingers moved through his neatly curved mustache slowly while his hard stare fixed upon Nasuada.

"We still welcome you, no matter the hard times we face."

"Does Varden hospitality extend towards mouths, or it's just meant for the weapons we carry? Steel don't require much attention and it be far more valuable during those…" he frowned, as if the word he wanted to say vanished from his lips. "Hard times, as you put it." He nodded twice to get his point across.

Nasuada walked on rotten ice. A bad word could send five legions of well armed, well trained dwarves back to the rock they used to call home. Murdi the Usurper stripped it from them, just as Orik's men stripped the Varden of valuable resources.

"The Varden looks after its people, be it men, dwarves, or elves."

"She means to say that nothing is certain," Sabrae said. "Hard times often see allies turn on each other."

"Sabrae—"

"If we do not act now," Sabrae interrupted.

Nasuada eased back into her chair, her grip on the armrests lessening. Jormundur reached forward to grab one of the maps.

"The fishing villages along the Leona river. Their nets are close to full during this time of the year. Look here." His finger traced a path. Nasuada craned her neck to make out its meaning, but the light fell on the wrong portion of the map. She merely nodded to encourage Jormundur to continue. "The coastal villages. Brun had not yet sent its caravan. The others too. The saltwater fish seeks the warm waters close to the shore for a good moon cycle."

"Winter not last a moon cycle only," Orik said.

"It does not," Nasuada said. She leaned back on her chair and studied her councilors. Grim, as always. Only Jormundur stretched his meaty lips in a forced smile.

"Soldiers focus on today's hardships. They do not worry about what tomorrow will bring. It may be a sword in the belly or a cold night in a tent," he said.

Nasuada nodded. "A moment of respite is what we need. Is what the people need. Falberd and Sabrae, go through those maps and mark each village that sent its caravan. Charcoal for them, and wax drops for the ones that can house some of our people. We'll know the ones who do not make their contribution to our cause."

Sabrae rolled her eyes and reached towards the maps, but Nasuada raised her hand to stop her. "Not now. Food will keep the army content for a month, but no more. When the snows come and hunger gets the best of them, any man with a sword will put it to good use." She swallowed what little moisture dwelled in her parched mouth. "We have to keep moving."

Every councilor voiced their protest at the same time in a cacophony of words and barks, but Jormundur's deep voice muffled them. "She is right! Soldiers only have a purpose on the move. Keep them in Feinster, and they'll soon replace it with another, more sinister one."

"Is folly to consider such when you ate at lunch so much," Falberd said while he soothed the dog with slow, gentle strokes.

"Snow is deep and dwarves have short legs. That why we never march during the Frost Months."

"I take no part in your madness," Sabrae said after Orik. "Give me my maps and ignore me for the rest of the meeting."

Nasuada shifted her seat away from the sunlight. Frost months came, yet she seethed inside her dress. Beads of sweat formed on her brow as tension mixed with heat. A breath of fresh air would have calmed her turmoil, yet the windows were stuck, and the room was small. She had to get out.

"We'll discuss it on the morrow then. Anything else?"

"The surdans," Orik said.

"We can barely house our own, yet—"

"A delicate topic needs a more favorable context," Jormundur said as he rose. "My generals need me."

He walked towards the door and opened it. Several boys awaited outside, but only one rushed in.

"Pardon my interruption, but the Surdan ambassador requires my lady's presence." His voice was thin, much like his constitution. Nasuada wondered if there was any meat under the rags he wore.

"I'll come." She turned towards Sabrae and Falberd. "I want the maps done before the sunlight dims." Sabrae yawned and Falberd stroke his dog's chin, a pensive look on his face. "Council disbanded," she said, just to make sure they heard.

A gust of wind brought much needed relief to Nasuada once they left the council chamber. On the outside, it looked like a peasant's cottage. Nothing conspicuous about it.

She inhaled the sharp air and eyed the boy. "Lead me there."

The boy gulped, extending a frail hand. Nasuada shook her head and motioned him to move forward.

"Tell me more about Lazlo."

"Well," the boy began, "Lazlo is quite a figure among his own kin, if you know what I mean." Nasuada didn't, but she still nodded. Boys had the habit of turning into mutes if she didn't play their games.

"His army is made up of all sorts of warriors: pirates, soldiers, alchemists." His voice softened suddenly. "Which are some sort of mages."

"Pirates?"

The boy giggled at Nasuada's question. "That's what I said a moment ago. Pirates, thieves and other wretches are trained and recruited into their army. They're a funny people."

Once the cobblestone main road gave way to a meandering path, Nasuada's steps slowed down to a shuffle. Mud clung to her hard leather boots, and she had to accept the boy's hand to keep her balance. His bare feet had no trouble adjusting to the soaked alley.

"Surdans also have an art called fermentation. The Surdan ambassador said so. It's complicated, so that's all I know."

Nasuada found it difficult to focus on the boy's words as they sloughed through the mud. Few soldiers visited these parts of Feinster, but the ones who passed by saluted her in the Varden fashion. Even the urchins stopped their play to point and smile at her.

"Those houses." Nasuada pointed at several dilapidated structures. Some had a patched roof, while others had no roof at all. "Do people live in them?"

The boy nodded in his curt way. "Ya, and we call this area The Mud. It's better than the outskirts. Some people sleep next to the wall, I heard, and use tree branches to keep themselves warm."

By the time they left The Mud, the lower parts of Nasuada's dress turned brown. The soaked silk clung to her shins, and each time it did, Nasuada winced from its freezing touch.

"All of Feinster is The Mud after past day's rain." The boy looked at Nasuada and smiled. He was such a young and frail thing, yet he paid no attention to the mud and the cold. Where Nasuada saw suffering, his big, brown eyes noticed an alternative.

"We're almost there."

Nasuada followed the boy through a narrow corridor created by two squat houses. There was no mud here. Only foul smelling trash.

Something whined.

Nasuada's heart pounded in her chest as she caught a glimpse of movement with the corner of her eyes. The piles of junk moved!

"Homeless," the boy said. "They're just stretching their aching limbs."

_How can they live like this? _Nasuada wanted to ask, but thought better of it. The Council found no homes for them, so they sent them here. Her decisions tossed these poor wretches on the streets.

"Lady." A gnarled hand tugged at her dress. "Lady, lady, lady."

Nasuada jerked free from his frail grip and hastened her pace. She dared not glimpse at the man whose haunting mantra followed her until a stream of light enveloped her.

"You're shaking."

She was, but she did not notice it until the boy took her hand. Why was she shaking?

"It's cold," Nasuada said. She quickly retracted her hand and motioned for the boy to lead. She found it impossible to hold his gaze. His brown eyes, wide with worry, made her feel even worse.

"Lucky this path is always sunny," the boy said as he dashed across the slick cobblestone road "The Surdan's that way! Was an honor Lady!"

A merchant whistled at him as he drove his wagon past Nasuada. His guards reached for their cudgels, but they dismissed the thought. The boy had the agility of a cat and similar stealth skills. One moment, he stood next to Nasuada to comfort her, and disappeared on a dark alley the other.

It was indeed fortunate that nobody stopped to greet her. Nasuada could barely salvage enough moisture to dry her parched throat. Pleasantries were the last thing she needed. At least her trip through the muddy alley served a purpose. Dirt had a way of turning leaders into common folk.


	2. Supplies and Shelter part 2

The surdan ambassador's dwelling was an imposing stone brick mansion with an upper balcony. Vines sprouted an inflorescence of white and hyacinth along its railing, and no dirt marred its pristine grey walls. The windows were so clean that Nasuada had no difficulties discerning the portrait of a sailor on the wall of one room.

So absorbed was Nasuada in the display of ostentation that she almost tripped when her foot collided with a raised boulder. Only that it was no boulder. The mansion had a raised stone pathway to keep away the mud.

She stopped in front of an ornate iron portcullis. Spearheads decorated its upper parts.

A group of dark skinned surdans worked the garden's withered thorn bushes. One of them, a bald man with a muscular build, glanced at her, shielded his eyes from the sun with a scraped hand and shouted, "Your name, lady."

The soiled dress was a better cover than Nasuada anticipated. "Nasuada. The Surdan awaits me."

"Let her in," he barked to a thin youngling who almost toppled over on his way to the portcullis. The others kept cutting and pulling thorn bushes, oblivious to her presence.

Nasuada nodded her thanks to the boy and entered the front garden. Nothing grew in the reddish soil apart from thorn bushes and several other weeds.

"Laborious work for a bad soil," Nasuada said.

"The surdan said," the man from earlier replied. "He plants surdan plants later."

"You are not surdans?"

"We tend to his patch of dirt, clean his house and guard him." he said. "That does not make us surdans."

Their constitution betrayed their purpose. She paid too much attention to their frayed leather vests, torn pants and gloomy expressions. Somehow, the truth bothered her.

"Guard him from what? The Council saw to his comfort, and patrols constantly walk by this dwelling."

The man smiled and glanced at the others. One of them laughed. "He's a pirate. Might as well house Galbatorix and call him the Empire ambassador." The man paused, as if searching for the right words. His sweaty brow furrowed after a tense moment. "He's a sea thief. Is equally skilled on land, yes? And not many like thieves, not when they live in a palace."

Nasuada weighed his concerns, but war required compromises. "His past is irrelevant. We use what we can."

"He's a wolf, he is." The hoarse voice belonged to a different man, a brute with short cropped hair and gaunt features. "Alone, he not a good hunter. With his pack, dangerous predator. And the surdans are coming."

After a long slog through muddy paths and a tiresome squabble with the Council, Nasuada no longer had the patience to reassure those who could not think for themselves.

"I'll meet the ambassador," she said. Sensing defeat, the men began to whisper to each other as they resumed their activity.

Nasuada made her way to the front entrance. Exquisite carvings decorated the mahogany door. Two trees on the sides intertwined their branches over a glade filled with animals. A boar's head stood in the center, and its tusks served as handles. She was just about to open the door when a voice stopped her hovering hand.

"The poisoner was also an innocent cook." It was the bald man. "She allowed him stay into the city. That's when your sister died."

The others joined him into a raucous mixture of accusations, foul words and threats. Before she knew it, Nasuada pushed the door open and slammed it shut once she entered the room. Blessed silence engulfed her.

A sudden voice startled Nasuada. "On the balcony. Don't step on the furs and follow the stone path." The ambassador's voice was rich and cultured. Pirate or not, he could win a crowd with that tone alone.

She took a deep breath to calm her racing heart before she did as he bid. Nasuada kept to the stone path. A glance to the side revealed the reason. Bear furs, untouched by grime, stretched across the floor, creating a seamless mass of brown shades. Numerous paintings of forest animals and ships covered the wall, and fox furs patched the bleak ceiling. The lack of furniture puzzled Nasuada. Decorated as it was, the room looked depressingly empty.

Nasuada climbed a winding staircase and crossed a narrow hallway that led to a central room. She passed two sets of rooms on her way. Guest rooms, most likely.

"Lady Nasuada." The ambassador wore a loose linen shirt that exposed his hairy chest. A thin rope held his baggy silk trousers from falling off his thin yet well-developed form.

"Fair winds today." He leaned his head forward and touched the edge of his hay hat with two forefingers. Nasuada curtsied in reply, although she knew nothing of surdan customs.

"We have matters to discuss," Nasuada said.

"On the balcony, yes." He turned around and Nasuada prepared to follow. A strident shout stopped her.

"No no no, on the side, with the back to the wall. "

"Why?"

"Because of your dress." The ambassador's gaze fell on the floor. Hides of different colors and patterns had been stitched together into a crude mosaic. Nasuada recognized some, but others were exotic in nature. A scaled hide closely resembled a dragon's.

"You like it?"

"Yes," Nasuada indulged him. "What does it represent?"

The ambassador chuckled. "Beauty does not need a reason."

Nasuada shuffled around the furs, one step at a time. "A messenger boy summoned me here. Lazlo's arrival will put strain on our supplies and resources." Nasuada paused as she turned around a corner. "We can't accommodate him. Not during the Frost months."

"This rug is made of many skins, just like the surdans. Not easy to unite them because of different colors. Come now."

Once she reached the balcony, Nasuada fell into a chair cushioned with a round pillow and let out a drawn-out sigh. Her feet needed this moment of respite. Lounging became a foreign luxury to her now that the Frost Months loomed closer and closer.

"You wanted to talk." The ambassador picked a small, gourd shaped metallic recipient from the basket on his right. "About houses, supplies, something else that doesn't involve my furs."

Nasuada nodded. "Feinster is a small city. Part of my people sleep in filthy alleys, curl next to the city wall and use whatever they can find to keep themselves warm. Families are crammed inside barns with cracked roofs. Some don't even have a roof."

"They have tents, don't they? Yet none is raised."

Nasuada swallowed what little moisture dwelled in her mouth. The Varden used their battle tents to shelter a moving army. Against hail and blizzards, the cloth and leathers provided a poor substitute for stone. Surely the Surdan knew this.

"We only use them when we march," she said.

"Cold forces animals to change their dens. Why can't you?" The ambassador took a gulp from the flask and waved with it dismissively. "Supplies and shelter are the council's concern. I'm only a fermentator with a fondness for furs, paintings and long talks." A smile crept under his forked moustache. "You came here to rant. That means you're not interested in my stories."

Nasuada shifted in her seat. Soldiers and thieves resorted to blunt remarks. Perhaps the ambassador was not the smooth talker portrayed in the rumors. " Stories are told in times of peace."

"You did not request my name either."

"All I request from my subjects are deeds, loyalty, and loyal deeds," Nasuada said. "Songs and stories remember names, not me."

"How droll."

The ambassador threw the metallic flask back in the basket and rested his hands on his lap. "In Surda, you do not know a man until you remember his name the next day. Did you know that our army has no ranks, no lords?" He shook his small head slowly. "Names are enough. The name you hear often is the one you want to follow. But you rebels rely on practical leadership. Like a pack of wolves. Knowing each other does not keep you from biting your necks, sometimes harder than necessary. "

"We're not animals, surdan." Blood welled in her cheeks. Despite her struggle to contain her rampant emotions, a few words still got the best of her. "If needs got the best of us, we would be farmers, crafters, soldiers and lords for the Empire. We would accept our nature as slaves to a tyrant instead of denying it. Instead, we chose scarce food, poor shelters, and the constant fear of impending death."

"Makes me wonder why." The surdan looked over the yonder, his gaze wistful, almost unfocused. "Why did you emerge from that dragon crap hole of a mountain?"

His question took Nasuada by surprise. She still fought to control herself, to restrain Ajihad's legacy, as Sabrae called it. Father would have thrown him from the balcony and blame his drinking habits at this point. But she couldn't. Hot headed leaders often faced the ire of their people.

The surdan took her silence for an answer. "Ambition, or maybe wishful thinking. You don't know the names of your people, so you gave them a purpose instead. It's still up to them to interpret it. Some may lack your conviction or disagree with your ways."

"They followed me so far."

"Before the Frost Months, yes, and in battles. What happens when there is no enemy in sight for three months? Battles have to take place, yes? That's what army is for."

A shiver ran through Nasuada as the surdan's gaze fell on her. His eyes held the stark, icy color of the ocean.

"Enough of my men," Nasuada's voice held a slight authoritative touch. "Tell me about Lazlo. What does he expect from us?"

"Ah." He smiled in his pretentious way. "Answering a question with another question. That's surdan practice." After another gulp from his flask, the surdan licked the moisture off his lips.

"Lazlo expects you to hold your end of the bargain. He should not concern you. It's the other surdans that you have to appease." He patted his stomach and grinned sheepishly.

Nasuada opened her mouth to protest, but words refused to come out.

The surdan's cackle sent a jolt through her. "Lady, you look more tense than a boy on his first battlefield. Stay away from surdans until you get accustomed to our humor. One may find your stern features less…friendly."

Nasuada did not flinch. "Empty tables do not get along with humor. Unless your surdans share their humor in the company of empty bottles and dirty platters."

"That's when humor works best. " The surdan's pleasant laugh was replaced by his unyielding voice. "We have our own food, prepared with herbs. Surdans don't eat grass seed porridge or the stuff that you make out of it. Bread was called, yes." He paused for a moment. "All we need is many a place where we can lay down our pillows. With roofs, preferably. And maybe some grass seed bread near the end of Frost."

"Wheat," Nasuada said.

The surdan nodded and smiled. "We'll make our own wheat bread if we like it. Improve it, too. That's what surdans do."

A cold gust of wind carried the scent of Frost with it. Nasuada wriggled in her chair. Her back ached, but discomfort paled in comparison to the choice she had to make. The surdan's piercing gaze demanded an answer, and she could delay no longer.

"You shall have your dwellings." Guilt prodded at her thoughts, but she dismissed it with a determined nod. "We'll raise the tents two days before Lazlo arrives."

"Good. Tidy. You make good impression in the eyes of surdans, yes."

A door slammed shut below. The Surdan waved dismissively at the sound, as if he swatted away an annoying insect. "It's that boy again, desert flies take him."

Sure enough, a high pitched voice confirmed the surdan's suspicions. "Lady Nasuada, Arya returned from her scouting duty and awaits you in your quarters."

"Your presence warms my dwelling, Lady." The surdan got up from his chair. He wobbled a little before he regained his balance. "It's unfortunate that we'll not share a drink here, on this balcony."

"Maybe we will," Nasuada said as she walked around the carpet stitched of a dozen furs. She lied.

The surdan did not come downstairs. Even better. He deserved no sliver of respect after his nonsense talk of names and their importance.

"Open the door." The boy regarded her with wide eyes before did as commanded. He was the same skittish creature from before.

"Walk slowly. I need time to think."

Nasuada followed the boy through the twisted streets of Feinster like a ghost. Numerous possibilities circled her mind, but she dismissed them all by the time they stopped. She could not put her people above the Surdans. She could not risk the anger of the commoners either. Not while the rumors still spoke of the feebleness that overtook her since the Black Hand's attack.

"May you hear what you need to hear," the boy said before he ran off to do the council's bidding. Nasuada watched his petite form until the crowd engulfed him. She was once like him, a being governed by Father's choices. She did not have to think, or question her motives or decide the fate of an entire army. That was until Father died.

Nasuada turned around to face four of her Nighthawks. One was a dwarf, while the other three were human. She had never paid proper attention to her guards, even though they faced the elements, cold nights in front of her mansion and a sudden death.

"You will all dine with me tonight, after the other four arrive," she said.

"There be food enough here, and the weather is pleasant," the dwarf said.

"You're kind, lady, but a hot meal is more suited for the urchins and homeless," one of the men, a short one, added.

"I'll have them in the morning. My mind is set for tonight."

No one protested this time. The dwarf opened the door for Nasuada and smiled heartily.

Nasuada found Arya staring at a shadow cat painting in the dining room. Grime coated her tunic, and the lower parts of her leggings frayed. She looked almost as tired as Nasuada, despite her best efforts to maintain an impassive expression.

"Nuts are in that bag." Nasuada pointed at a bulged linen sack. "I have nothing else. Sit where you please."

Arya occupied a chair at the end of the elongated trestle table while Nasuada got out of her dress. Her skin shriveled in the absence of a fire, and she shivered for a moment before she donned a clean dress from her armoire.

"Farica pampers you no longer?"

"Her husband needs her more," Nasuada said. She shuffled to the nearest cot and crashed. A sigh escaped her.

"I needed to be alone with my thoughts," she said after she made herself comfortable. "But that's irrelevant. Tell me about Belatona."

Arya straightened her back. "The city is split into two sides, or so its inhabitants call them. Narrow streets slither between tall houses for the Workers side. A bottlenecked army is easy prey for archers stationed on rooftops. The War side—"

"Not that," Nasuada said. "If the garrison camps inside city, our army will starve before we get past the walls." She emphasized the last word, but Arya did not pick it up. Despite her age, she seemed annoyingly dense at times.

"The War side is separated from the Workers side by a wall half as tall as—"

"Where is the garrison?" Nasuada interrupted.

"It's outside the city, spread throughout the surrounding villages. Only a handful of soldiers keep the city in line. Beggars cling onto people at every corner. Merchants fare no better. Packs of urchins sometimes kill their guards and trap the merchant. If he doesn't house them, he joins his fallen guards."

"Mayhem," Nasuada said. A smile crept on her lips. "That's something we can use." She rolled out of her cot to face Arya. "How many man the battlements, guard the gate and patrol the streets?"

"Nobody climbed the walls after sleet. The few patrols are scared to do their duty after dark. I saw no guards."

_So terse, _Nasuada thought. Arya was one of her worst spies. She could not blend within a crowd, indulge drunkards for information or collect the most significant of rumors. She was, however, the only dragon rider of the Varden.

"Is that everything?"

"The War side is situated uphill and is cut off from the Work Side by a thin wall without battlements. "

Nasuada raised her hand to silence Arya and shook her head. "That's not necessary for now. You may go."

Arya bowed her head and left. If her spying skills lacked, her manners were nonexistent. Things had always been different with Eragon. He respected her as much as she respected him. He never disobeyed her, until…

Nasuada scrunched up her nose. The past was past. She had no use for it now. She tidied her dress and looked at the room for one last time before leaving to inform the council.


End file.
